Garden

There's a garden there,

with soft loamy soil

waiting for us.

It's a ways down the road,

after too many fights,

More love making than thought

humanly possible,

running into each other's arms

to hide,

making each other brave,

the two of us,

avoiding the world,

making strong,

facing the world,

Learning love,

beating the world.

After triumph,

and countless packs of

cigarettes,

and a myriad of potions,

there is a garden,

with soft soil,

and sunshine for our backs,

rain for our heads,

and a little wooden house,

silly cats

with ridiculous names,

gorgeous children...

or not...

And a plane ticket

waiting on the desk.

By candle light

it reads "______"

BH

The American Way.

We have a method

in cities like this
for taking care
of moonstruck travellers
like you.
There aren't enough
dreams
to go around.
So you just calm down.
Do something else.
Be small,
you can pretend to be big,
pretend to be
important,
Demand the adoration
of children,
Leave your thumbprint
in fucked up lives.
That's fine.
That's American.
But dreaming,
but going for that Moon.
That ain't American.
That was the 60's,
the 60's weren't American either.
All of that shit
is foreign.
too foreign.
Out of this world even.
Aliens are weird,
and we don't take
too kindly
to their types
around here.
So choose.
You either give that
space shit up,
and find a destructive way
to vent.
Or you ride
fuckin fire tails
high into
the black backed ocean
chasin' stars
and lovin' moons.
But don't fly too low kid.
Or we'll shoot you down.
Just like
the 60's.

-BH

What the World Needs Now.

John Lennon was right,
Love is all you need.
But we ain't got that,
All we got is a feeling.
And love is a Verb.

-BH